I Will Find You
by Muriel Candytuft
Summary: He disappeared from Narnia. Now, guided only by a ring with a cryptic engraving, can she bring him back? Victoria searches for her missing father...the High King Peter.
1. Prologue: The Chamber Of Carvings

I Will Find You

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading my work and for all the encouragement. This story's dedicated to a Lord of the Rings fanfic writer on a different site. AU so look out! What if, when Peter came back to England at the end of the Golden Age, he'd left a child?

Prologue: The Chamber Of Carvings

_Is there a way I can find you/ Is there a sign I should know/ Is there a road I could follow/ To bring you back home?_

_--Enya, "If I Could Be Where You Are"_

_Narnian year 1014_

Eight-year-old Victoria tossed her doll aside, sat on the floor, and drawing her knees to her chest, sobbed.

Why was she here? It was a beautiful night, and she should be roaming the courtyards of Cair Paravel, not locked away in her apartments. Where was everybody? After they'd sent her to her room, her faun and nymph attendants had flocked to her mother's apartments, whispering and worrying. Now they were still there, they had missed her dinner, and to crown it all, her father had not come back from his hunt yet.

"What is going on?" Victoria shrieked with all her small might, hoping someone, anyone, would hear and answer. Her voice echoed mockingly from the tapestry-decked walls; but eventually another sound joined the echoes. Victoria's heart swelled with relief as she heard delicate hoofbeats approaching her apartments. She stood, smoothed wrinkles out of her gown, and rubbed the tears off her face with her fist.

The massive door swung open and a faun stumbled in. "My Princess," he gasped, bowing slightly. "You must come with me at once to your mother's apartments."

"I thought I'd be in here all night!" Victoria declared happily, but stopped when she noticed the faun's demeanor. "Are you--is--is everything all right, Tumnus?"

Tumnus began to say yes, but his eyes filled, and he bit his lip and gazed with sudden interest at the wood floor. "No, it's not, Your Highness. Your mother--"

Victoria's eyes widened. "The baby?"

"Yes."

Without further hesitation, Victoria burst into the hallway and half-ran, half-skipped. "Yay! I'm a big sister! I'm a big sister!"

Tumnus pelted behind her. "Your Highness, wait, please--"

She thought she'd fly with sheer excitement, but she obligingly slowed and allowed Tumnus to catch up with her. "Is it a boy or a girl, Tumnus?" she demanded joyously as she walked.

Silence met this question. Victoria glacned confusedly at Tumnus's face, and was bewildered to see tears on it. "Tumnus?"

"A boy, Your Highness, but it's not..." Tumnus began, but then broke down. Victoria, with all the tenderness a child can muster, took his hands and stared into his eyes.

"What is it? Has something--" Her heart skipped a beat as she realized the awful possibility. "Has something happened?"

Tumnus did not return her stare. "Yes, Your Highness." His voice sounded distant, broken by tears.

"What?"

"Miscarriage."

Victoria's hands tightened around Tumnus's. "No..."

"And it's not just that, Your Higness; the birth left her very weak." Tumnus spoke as slowly and gently as he could. "And when the baby was lost..." Looking tired, he pressed his fist against his mouth and shook his head. "Victoria, I think it's time to say farewell."

Victoria's tears exploded now, wild and angry. Tumnus, crying again, held the princess close, and she clung to him while they wept.

Victoria followed Tumnus into her mother's apartments, no longer crying, feeling horribly tired and old. She stared at the ceilings as she trudged across the room. They were of solid mahogany, carved with over a million intricate pictures of the history of Narnia; they glowed warmly in the golden candlelight. Above her head, in those carvings, Aslan sang Narnia into existence; nymphs and dryads danced jigs and reels; and her father, the High King, was knighted. Queen Susan had commisioned those carvings as a brithday present for Victoria's mother. Victoria looked numbly away, knowing tonight would be the last night her mother would see them, but hoping fiercely that it would not.

At last she reached her mother. Princess Morgana lay beneath white bedspreads and the watchful eyes of her ladies-in-waiting. Her long, chestnut hair was still damp with the effort she'd put into her son's birth and the shade of her face was a frightening match with the bedspread. She turned her head to Victoria as she entered and whispered, "My child..." Her once clarion voice cracked and wheezed.

"Mother," Victoria breathed sadly. Tumnus and the ladies-in-waiting backed away quietly.

"I am so sorry," Morgana began, but stopped with a long, pained gasp. "I know how much you wanted the baby to come."

Victoria did not answer. She only stared fearfully at her mother. Never had she seen her like this.

"But darling, Aslan will care for the baby. We shall see him again, in Aslan's country," Morgana continued, but Victoria saw that each word cost her dearly.

"Madam," a strong voice emerged from the door. Victoria turned as Oreius entered the chamber, but kept a respectful distance.

"Did you find him, Oreius?" Morgana asked breathlessly, struggling to sit up. A dryad carefully pushed her back into the pillows.

"We did not, madam," Oreius admitted, shoulders slumped. "Not King Peter, or his royal brother and sisters. We only found their weapons, horses, gear, and this." He stretched his enormous hand towards Princess Morgana. On the palm, a ring glittered; it was a thin, gold band, engraved on the inside. Victoria immediately recorgnised it: her father's wedding band.

Morgana reached up, took the ring, and held it hopelessly before her face. "Peter, why do you do this to me?" she rasped almost inaudibly. Her eyes wandered to her child's shocked face, and filled. With some difficulty, Morgana unfastened a delicate gold chain from about her neck, looped it onto the ring, and held it out to Victoria. "Take it, darling."

Victoria took the jewelry, and squinted to read the words engraved inside the ring: _"Love Has Taken Magnificence and Transformed It Into Splendour. For Peter, From Morgana. 1006."_

"Thank you, mother," Victoria said slowly as she pulled the chain around her own neck.

"You won't pop the chain, will you?" Morgana asked slyly, a wan smile briefly softening her face.

"I hope not," Victoria tried to laugh at Morgana's allusion to her old habit of popping the necklaces of any noble she came near, stranger or no.

Morgana nodded approvingly, then reached up and cupped her daughter's face in her thin hands. "Victoria, love, promise me two things. First, promise me that you will find your father. Do whatever it takes to find him. If and when you do, give him that ring and chain. And promise me," she paused and flinched as a shudder seized her and her breath rattled, "promise me never to forget that I love you."

Victoria's tears were on Morgana's hands. "I promise."

And they were silent for nigh an hour. As the sun peeked over the Eastern Ocean, Morgana's eyelids dropped.

A little sigh.

And she was gone.

The carvings in the ceiling still shone richly in the dimming candlelight.

Love? Hate? Think I should continue? Stop? There's a purple button down there begging you to click...but not drag.


	2. The Girl At The Lamppost

Chapter 1--The Girl At The Lamppost

A/N: Now for a POV switch. Yes, I know that Peter would be thirteen here, according to C.S. Lewis's timeline, but I've changed his age to seventeen. Please don't shoot me...

In his dream, Peter pushed through the mess of fur coats and bracken until he stepped into Lantern Waste. He trudged onward until he reached the lamppost; the lamp still burned heartily as ivy curled around the metal post.

"What am I doing here?" he asked himself.

"I have summoned you here, Son Of Adam."

A wild, familiar voice made Peter catch his breath. From the trees, the Lion emerged, beautiful and terrible.

"Aslan," Peter whispered; he started to walk over to Aslan, but suddenly hesitated.

The Great Lion understood what Peter felt. "Draw near, Son Of Adam. Do what you will."

Then Peter rushed to Aslan and embraced him, stroking his rough mane. "I missed you so much...have you grown smaller?"

"Nay, lad, you have grown larger," Aslan replied. He turned his shaggy head upward to Peter's face. "Now, Son Of Adam, you must be brave, for I have brought you here to give you solemn news."

Peter stood back. "What is wrong?"

"Morgana has died," Aslan answered quietly.

Peter felt his stomach lurch, and his face paled. "M...Morgana?" he stammered. "And the baby?"

"Miscarried."

For a few seconds that seemed like decades, both were silent. Sunlight shimmered through the red and brown leaves overhead. At last Peter sighed. "When?" he asked, his voice cracking.

"Eight years ago, in our time." Aslan looked up as Peter turned away, shaking his head. "It is well, Son Of Adam. They both now live in unbridled joy in my own country."

"I know, but..." Peter rubbed tears from his face with a rough wool sleeve. "I just...I just wish I'd been there for her."

"She knew that she had your heart, Peter. Therefore, she was content to move on."

Feeling a sob tightening his throat, Peter swallowed and asked evenly: "What about Victoria?"

Aslan flicked his tail. "Your daughter lives still. I have brought you to this place so that you may see her."

"She's here?"

"Look above you, Son Of Adam."

Peter turned his face upwards and started as he noticed a figure perched on an oak branch directly overhead. It was a girl about Susan's age, maybe a little older. Barefoot and bareheaded, she was protected from the forest's autumnal chill only by a thick gown of brown wool and a burgundy-coloured mantle. Her gold-brown hair, cut short below the ears, was sprinkled with dry bits of leaves. She swung her feet back and forth and gazed quizzically at the lamppost.

"Victoria?" Peter called. The girl did not glance down, or give any indication that she'd heard.

"Victoria cannot hear you, Son Of Adam. We are silent and invisible to her."

The leaves above rustled as Victoria leapt nimbly down from her tree. Was this pensive, athletic girl, Peter thought, really the same person as the wide-open, sociable eight-year-old he had left? "She looks just like Morgana," was all he could say.

Victoria laid her fingertips against the cool metal lamppost and stared up at the flickering light for a moment, then she drew a golden chain out from under her mantle and held it up. Peter squinted at it, and then gasped as he recognised the gold band looped on the chain. "My ring...how did she get it?"

Aslan did not reply, for finally, Victoria spoke. "I don't know where to look for you, Father..." Her voice was low and raspy, as though it were seldom used. "I don't know why you left me. But I will find you. If it takes me until I go to Aslan's country, I will find you."

"Victoria, why would I ever just leave you?" Peter finally sobbed, though he knew she didn't hear.

Her determined "I will find you" echoed dimly through the silence. Lantern Waste wavered and swirled about grotesquely until Peter awakened to darkness and England, with the faint memory of a Lion's kiss on his forehead.

If you liked, review! If you hated, review anyway:D


	3. Once A Queen

Chapter 2: Once A Queen

A/N: Hey, yall, thanks for reading and reviewing! I'm enjoying writing this as much as I hope yall are enjoying reading.

Victoria gazed uncertainly at her reflection. She wore the same robe that her aunt, Susan, had worn for her coronation, but she felt neither regal nor beautiful in it. At least her hair would look somewhat decent, with the help of Finola, her lady-in-waiting.

"Are you ready for this, milady?" Finola asked around the hairpins in her mouth.

"As ready as I'll ever be," Victoria sighed, again critically perusing her reflection. She wondered how the delicate, golden circlet that would be placed on her head in a few minutes could give her so much power--and so much responsibility. Was it the crown that would give her power? Or would it be the spirit of her father, who once wore the same crown? Or would it be something else? Whatever it was, Victoria wasn't really certain she was ready for her new position.

"Was my father nervous at his coronation?" Victoria asked thoughtfully.

"Don't know," Finola muttered, wrestling to pin down an unruly wisp of gold hair. "S'pose he was, s'pose anyone would be. Are you?"

"I am not," Victoria lied.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Victoria inhaled deeply to calm herself, and cracked her knuckles. In just a moment, she would begin the longest walk of her life: Through the Great Hall of Cair Paravel, to the Four Thrones.

To her inheritance.

"Aslan give me strength," she whispered, and she reached down into her bodice and fingered Peter's ring. "And Father, if you can see me, I'll try and make you proud."

A prestigious trumpet fanfare rippled through the Great Hall, and a cheer from the Narnians assembled there rose up.

It was time.

Precisely placing one foot before the other, Victoria entered the Great Hall. Oreius and Tumnus stood at the Four Thrones, ready to perform the coronation ceremonies. She gulped and tried to focus entirely on them and on her destination. She tried not to wonder what her subjects were thinking behind their solemn smiles.

_I can't do this. I can't. I'm not wise enough, or powerful enough. I'm just a child. _Panic suddenly strangled Victoria as the thought burned through her mind. She stopped; she stood motionless in the middle of the Great Hall, nausea twisting her stomach.

Alarm showed in Tumnus's eyes. "Your Higness, what are you doing?" he mouthed silently.

Victoria closed her eyes. "I can't do this," she mouthed back.

Tumnus stared gravely at her. "You _have_ to do this."

She wanted to run, to cry, to forget about all of this ceremony and circumstance and responsibility. But Tumnus was right. So, she forced her feet to keep moving, forced herself to pretend to be confident and dignified. But her mind continued to insist, _I'm not ready. I can't do this_.

At last she reached the Four Thrones.

She stood before the lords and nobles, fauns and centaurs, dwarves and dryads, and smiled brilliantly. They smiled as well, but Victoria could feel that they were measuring her and finding her wanting.

"To the Western Lands, to the Great Eastern Ocean, to the golden sun, and to the clear northern sky," Oreius intoned, drawing his sword in salute, "Victoria, the Strong."

As the audience bowed, Victoria again squeezed her eyes shut. The Strong. That was the last thing she felt like now. She looked up as, with an encouraging smile, Tumnus came forward and placed the golden crown upon her head.

Victoria was surpised at the crown's lightness as she lifted her head up again. It had looked much heavier.

Oreius nodded to Victoria, and, recognising the signal, Victoria backed up until she felt the backs of her legs touch her throne. She sat carefully down.

Oreius turned half to Victoria, half to the assembly. "Once a King or Queen in Narnia, always a King or Queen. May your wisdom grace us until the stars rain down from the heavens. In Aslan's name, my Queen, begin your reign."

Then began the cheering. "Long live Queen Victoria! Long live Queen Victoria!"

Victoria sighed, relieved that the ceremony was finally over. A feast came afterwards, and Victoria celebrated as happily as anyone. Still she felt disturbed. She had survived the coronation...

...but would she survive the rest of her reign?

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A/N: I based the words for the coronation ceremony on the movie, but I'm not sure I've got them right. All corrections are welcome!

Does it glow? Does it suck? Does that "submit review" button work?


	4. On Your Shore

Chapter 3: On Your Shore

A/N: Hi, everyone! Thanks so much for all the reviews! The title, as well as the lyric at the beginning, will become clear later in this chapter. Also, a year has passed since Victoria's coronation and this chapter.

_Soft blue horizons reach far into my childhood days/ As you are rising to bring me my forgotten ways / Strange how I falter/ To find I'm standing in deep water/ Strange how my heart beats/ To find I'm standing on your shore_

_--Enya, "On Your Shore"_

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_Year 1023_

Victoria heard trouble coming before it even entered her royal reception room. Its boots boomed across the marble floors, while it shouted, "Oh, she thinks not, eh? Well, she's got another think coming!"

Oreius, who stood by Victoria's desk, studying a map of the North with her, glanced up and shook his head. "It sounds like Lord Arran has a bone to pick with you, Majesty."

"Does the sun set in the west?" Victoria gulped in a long stream of air, preparing for the coming explosive lecture.

"Majesty, remember to stand up for yourself," Oreius commanded gently.

A jarring bang as the oak doors tore open and a Man strode in, face the colour of raw meat. "I suppose you have a good excuse for this piece of idiocy!" he fairly screamed as the doors slammed behind him.

Victoria could only stare at him, as he stood before her desk, fists clenched. After an awkward pause, Oreius finally snapped: "Lord Arran! Bow to your Queen!"

Lord Arran dipped into a mechanical bow, still glowering at Victoria. Hoping another pause would calm him down, Victoria waited a moment before saying, "Good evening, Lord Arran. You may address my Majesty."

"Your Majesty," Lord Arran hissed through gritted teeth, standing up straight, "five words: Why--did--you--do--it!"

"Why did I do what?"

"Hello?" Lord Arran called sarcastically. "The Calormene envoy! Why did you dismiss the Calormen envoy!"

Victoria sighed; not this again. "Lord Arran, I have given the Tisroc my final answer. I will not be convinced to change our current trade policies. So, I had no need to speak with them."

"Or was it that you're too _scared_ to speak to them!"

Oreius's eyes flashed. "Do not accuse Her Majesty of cowardice, Lord Arran!"

Lord Arran, sufficiently cowed by Oreius's second rebuke, lowered his voice slightly. "Your Majesty, I am only looking out for your _best interests_. Get me some wine," he suddenly demanded.

Much to Oreius's consternation, Victoria arose from her desk, obediently took up the decanter of wine and a goblet sitting on the desk, and poured Lord Arran some. She handed him the goblet, and without thanks, he drained it, and resumed his tirade. "If you want the ministers to even think about raising your income, you must stop being so reclusive. They might think you arrogant!"

"Do you think me arrogant, Lord Arran?" Victoria suddenly inquired. As Lord Arran visibly hesitated, she bit her lip and looked away tiredly. If only she weren't so terrifed of the social interactions her throne demanded.

At last Lord Arran muttered, "I think you are at too tender an age to fully realize what is at stake. If you cannot--"

"Ware your patronizing, my lord," Oreius barked indignantly. "It may cost you your title."

Terror showed briefly in Lord Arran's narrow brown eyes until Victoria said, "Peace, Lord Arran; I will not strip you of your title today. Nor will I change my mind about our trade policies yet. You may go now."

A quick bow and Lord Arran stormed away, growling, "Too young and impressionable to properly rule a country..."

When she was sure he could not hear, Victoria pushed her map out of the way, rested her head on her desk and sobbed.

"You have done well, my Queen," Oreius encouraged, patting her shoulder brusquely. "This time he actually left when you told him to. But why, in Aslan's name, did you deign to serve him that cursed wine!"

"Oreius, he's right," Victoria sniffed, scrubbing at tears with the palm of her hand. "I'm not a good queen. I give in too easily. Honestly, I was even that close to agreeing to change our policies just to stop him yelling at me." She turned filled, grey eyes up to her mentor hopelessly.

"But you stood your ground. And for that, Majesty, I commend you."

Victoria didn't seem comforted; she let her head fall back onto her desk.

Oreius grunted with frustration. Even after all his dealings with her emotions, and with those of Queen Susan and Queen Lucy, he still wasn't quite sure what one did with a weeping lady. At last he mumbled, "Your Majesty, you are distraught. Perhaps a brisk walk outdoors will calm your nerves."

Still wiping her face, Victoria nodded. "Aye. Will--will you call Tumnus? I'd like him to walk with me."

The centaur started for the door. "Yes, madam."

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"It's interesting that you should choose this beach for a walk, Your Majesty," Tumnus remarked. "This was the High King Peter's favourite beach."

Victoria removed her leather sandals and stepped into the gentle, frigid tide. "Really?"

Tumnus nodded thoughtfully. "Almost every morning, before the sun was even up, he'd come out here and stay until dawn. Sometimes he'd ride up towards the cliffs and then come back; then other times he'd hunt for shells. And then other times, he'd just stand here, staring at the ocean. I suppose he was thinking."

Silently, Victoria knelt in the water, dipped her hands in and fished out an olive shell.

"He'd also sing," Tumnus continued, pulling his scarf tighter against the nippy breeze.

Victoria pocketed her olive shell, and buried her numb toes in the sun-baked sand to warm them. "I remember his singing voice. Strong."

"Especially when he sung you lullabies," Tumnus chuckled, "because he had be sure you could hear him over your own wailing."

Laughing, Victoria shoved Tumnus. "Oh, I'm sure!"

"Do you remember the lullabies?" Tumnus inquired.

"No," Victoria glanced at the ocean and fingered the ring hanging from her neck. "I suppose I was too young."

"He sang 'Forest of Dreams' to you the most. I thought for sure you'd recall that one."

"How does it go?" Victoria asked, hoping hearing it would revive a memory.

In a quiet voice, Tumnus sang:

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart. Mount your starry-maned mare..."_

Elated that she recognized the melody, Victoria took it up, her celestial soprano blending sweetly with Tumnus's warm tenor.

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart. Mount your starry-maned mare_

_"And cross yon verdant meadows of peace. Beyond there_

_"Sleeps the Forest of Dreams, under spells of moonlight._

_"May the Lion guard thee, child. Now gallop through night."_

As they sang the final line, Victoria closed her eyes to keep her tears of remembrance at bay. _Where is my father? _her heart sighed. _Would that he could sing me that lullaby again._

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As night enveloped Cair Paravel, Lord Arran strolled aimlessly near the back gates. A low whistle from the nearby shrubs made him start nervously, but when he saw a tall figure, in a dark robe and hooded cloak emerge, he relaxed.

"What news, comrade?" the figure hissed.

Lord Arran glanced apprehensively towards the gates, and turned to the hooded figure. "The Queen refuses to hear reason."

A deep sigh from the figure. "Then the Tisroc--may he live forever--will have to bring her to it in his own holy way."

"Tell him I will be glad to help with his holy way in whatever way I can," Lord Arran commanded vehemently.

The figure said nothing else until he had drawn a leather pouch from underneath his robe and slapped it into Lord Arran's palm. Something clinked inside it, quiet and metallic. "May Tash bless you for your friendship to our country, Arran."


	5. Because Of You

Chapter 4--Because Of You

A/N: Wow, four reviews in one day! Didn't expect that! I'm glad you all like this story.

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With a sharp, horrified gasp, Peter woke up.

"Are you okay?" Edmund's sleepy mumble came from across the room.

Peter, overwhelmed by a dizzy nausea, scrambled out of bed and out of the room, grabbing his bathrobe from the bedpost en route. He could hear Edmund hurrying after him as he stumbled through the now familiar passageways of Professor Kirke's home. "Peter, what in the name of all sense! It's two in the morning!"

"I've got to do something!" Peter snapped. Flinging the door to the spare room open, he dove at the wardrobe.

"What's going on?" Edmund demanded as he stumbled into the dark room behind his brother. "You look batty."

Frantically, Peter twisted the wardrobe's door handle and climbed inside, pushing fur coats out of his way. He stopped as his fingertips touched wood, and he faced the solid back of the wardrobe.

"No!" Peter shouted, and attacked the wood with his fists. "No, let me in, please! Please!"

"Peter, the Professor said we can't get back to Narnia by the wardrobe," a bemused Edmund stated.

"I have to get in! I'll get Lucy!" Peter tumbled out of the wardrobe and would have followed through with his hasty plan if Edmund hadn't intervened. He grabbed the older boy's shoulders and twisted him around to face him.

"Peter, _shut up_! Calm down!" Edmund yelled into Peter's white face. "This is ridiculous!"

Suddenly quiet, Peter flung Edmund away and turned his back on him. "You don't understand." His voice was strained and low.

"Well, maybe if you'd tell me what your problem is instead of carrying on like it's the apocalypse!"

A lengthy, nervous silence. At last Peter faced Edmund, terror and moonlight reflected in his grey eyes. "It's Victoria."

Edmund's eyes widened.

"I had a dream...I think she's in danger."

"In danger of what?" Edmund demanded.

Sadly, Peter shut the wardrobe door. "She needs me."

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Tumnus grinned and shook his head.

"What?" Victoria asked, plopping a heavy, dusty stack of books on the table.

Early sunlight glowed through the windows of Cair Paravel's massive library, while Tumnus and Victoria sweated over rearranging countless books on their shelves; Victoria planned to open the library for public use.

"I was just remembering," Tumnus chuckled, "something your father did."

"What?"

Tumnus dragged an enormous book down from a shelf with some difficulty. "Well, when he first crowned, Arran was always trying to push him around, tell him what to do--"

"Lord Arran?" Victoria questioned. "My father knew him?"

"Yes, though neither liked the other much. Well, one day, while the Kings and Queens were still fighting the giants up north, the High King held a meeting with the nobles, to hear what they thought should be done. And at that meeting, Lord Arran's temper got the better of him. He stood up in the middle of the Great Hall and started shrieking about how he didn't have to listen to a 'oversympathetic royal whelp' and how he was smarter than anyone in the room." Tumnus again smiled. "The Kings and Queens tried to shut him up, but he just yelled over them. And finally, King Peter stood up, grabbed a flagon of wine, and tossed it at Lord Arran."

Victoria clapped her hand to her mouth to stifle her shriek of laughter. "Really?"

"I saw the whole thing," Tumnus declared proudly. "He was soaked. He could only stand there, dripping and mumbling curses while the whole assembly laughed at him."

"Wish I could've seen that," Victoria smiled.

A knock on the library doors made both jump. "Come in," Victoria called.

The doors exploded open, and Oreius dashed in, his normally stoic face urgent. "Your Majesty," he puffed, dipping into a bow. "Glasswater has been attacked."

Victoria froze. The books in her hands dropped and hit the floor with a papery crack.

"What?" she cried.

"Early this morning, the Calormen militia docked at Glasswater, apparently disguised as traders," Oreius explained.

"What did they do?" Victoria asked blankly.

Oreius sighed. "So far, there are two hundred dead, including women and children. Calormen has declared war against us."

Victoria reached out, grabbing the edge of the table to steady herself as her stomach boiled with fear.

"But what did we...what did we do to them?" she gasped.

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"It's a little late to be slamming doors and yelling, isn't it?" a slightly amused voice asked from the spare room door.

Peter and Edmund whirled about, startled, but relaxed as Professor Kirke stepped into the dim light from the windows. He, like the boys, was protected from the house's chill by a bathrobe, and of course, a pipe hung from his mouth.

"Y-yes sir," Peter stammered. "I'm sorry. It was me."

"Well," Professor Kirke shoved his hands in his bathrobe pockets. "Just see if you can get back to your bedroom with as little door-slamming and yelling as possible, and I'll forgive you."

The boys headed for the door, but before Peter could get out, Professor Kirke tapped him on the shoulder.

"A word with you in my study, young man."

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"So," Lord Arran smirked. "Calormen has attacked."

"Yes, my lord," Victoria sighed.

Oreius entered the Great Hall and bowed to Victoria as he took his post next to the Four Thrones.

Lord Arran began to pace musingly around the Great Hall. "So, Calormen has declared war against Narnia."

"You know they have, my lord," Victoria replied. "What do you suggest--"

"So, you have no idea why. You believe this attack was unprovoked," Lord Arran sneered.

Oreius impatiently pawed with one hoof at the floor.

Victoria shifted uneasily in her throne. "I do."

Eyebrow raised, Lord Arran haugtily climbed the marble steps up to Victoria's throne. He stood and glared at her, mouth twisted into a horrible, resentful grimace. "You are wrong, Majesty."

Victoria shrank back. "What? But we haven't--"

"Think about it logically, for once in your life, Majesty," Lord Arran spat, his already narrow eyes becoming mere slits. "The Tisroc asked you politely and humbly to revise our trading policies. You refused."

"I had good reason--" Victoria began.

"AND NOW," Lord Anders interrupted loudly. "Now, you've angered the Tisroc, and he has reacted in a perfectly natural way."

"Natural!" Victoria breathed.

"Do not interrupt your elder!" Lord Arran roared, stamping emphatically on the marble.

"Control yourself, my lord!" Oreius snapped.

But Lord Arran continued. "Don't you see? This is no unprovoked attack; you provoked it! You aggravated the delicate state of peace we had with Calormen, and now we're at war with them. This is your fault." He leaned into Victoria's face and hissed, "This is all happening _because of you_."

Victoria's grey eyes shimmered with tears.

"Oh, fine, cry all you like, but it won't solve your problem," Lord Arran scoffed. "I just hope you learn your lesson from this unfortunate incident--you don't know much. Only your elders know what's good for you. If I've told you so once, I've told you a hundred times. But would you listen? No." He folded his silk-wrapped arms and spoke coldly. "That's your problem, you know. You're too stupid to be queen."

Oreius said nothing, but his eyes burned with righteous anger as he fiddled with the hilt of his sword.

Victoria pressed her hands against her face and sobbed. _He's right,_ her heart moaned. _It's my fault. I'm not cut out to be a ruler._

But even as she thought that, another voice whispered into her mind: _Yes, you are_.

She gasped as she recognised the voice. It was her father, the High King Peter. His voice continued, _There is a Deep Magic that governs everyone's destiny: yours, and mine. This _is _your destiny. This is your time. Rise up, and show everyone that you are just what Aslan has made you...Queen of Narnia._

Wrapping her fingers around the gold ring hanging from her neck, Victoria bit her lip. _Wherever you are, Father, I will still search for you...But first, I'll make you proud._

Victoria lifted her head up, and her soul felt immersed in a vast peace. She held her back straight and glared proudly at Lord Arran. "You're wrong, my lord," she said serenely. "I am Queen of Narnia...and you are just a silly man who thinks nobody appreciates him."

Lord Arran's mouth dropped open. "How dare you call me silly!"

Victoria only continued staring at him, with dignity and tranquility.

"Fine," Lord Arran snorted. "I'm not intimidated by snotty looks." He plumped down into a mahogany chair. "Now, do something useful and get me some wine."

_Who does this man think he is?_ Victoria wondered, not moving from her throne.

"Now, girl!" Lord Arran barked.

A defiant anger Victoria had never felt took over her as she arose. She didn't even give herself time to think her action through, as she usually would. Snatching up the decanter of wine on the table near her throne, she stomped down the marble steps, and stood before Lord Arran.

"What are you doing, girl?" Lord Arran snarled. "Serve me the wine."

"Yes, my lord," Victoria replied meekly, just before she dumped the decanter's expensive contents over Lord Arran's head.

Lord Arran bellowed and jumped to his feet as the wine soaked through his clothes. Calmly, Victoria returned to her throne. As she sat, she turned her eyes towards Oreius. His face was as unexpressive as usual, but his eyes radiated pride and approval.

"Summon our troops to Cair," Victoria commanded. "We will retaliate."


	6. The Queen Speaks

Chapter 5-- The Queen Speaks

A/N: Yes, I know, the chapter's short. But it is, nonetheless, a chapter. Thanks for the reviews, everyone! Reviews make my day. Extra-special thanks to Trebeco for letting me borrow their verse for this chapter; you rock!

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As he stuffed fresh tobacco leaves into his pipe, Professor Kirke glanced obliquely up at the pale boy who perched tensely on the divan on the other side of his study. "Peter Pevensie, all I have to say is, you're quite lucky Mrs. Macready didn't hear you. Perhaps you can enlighten me on how you move about so loudly, and yet seem to awaken nobody."

Staring down at his hands, clasped painfully together on his knees, Peter muttered, "It won't happen again, sir."

"And if it does?" Professor Kirke questioned pointedly. "What shall I think then?"

Peter shrugged and pushed his fingers through his gold-brown hair.

"So, maybe you would endure less discomfort if you just came clean." Professor Kirke leaned back in his desk chair. "What were you doing in the wardrobe?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I--" Peter began.

"Stop," Professor Kirke ordered. "The last time you said that, I quite disproved you, didn't I? Save yourself the embarrassment of being disproved a second time and understand that, if it has something to do with Narnia, my mind is open."

Peter couldn't help smiling. "Would you believe me," he began cautiously, "if I told you that--that I have a daughter in Narnia?"

"Well, of course," Professor Kirke said flatly. "You certainly like to make me sound doubtful, don't you?"

Shutting his burning eyes, Peter continued, "Sir, I had a dream about her. She's looking for me."

"And?" the professor urged.

"I think," Peter whispered, "that her life is in danger. See, there's this lord there, who always threw his weight around. Well, he's controlling my daughter, ordering her around, guilt-tripping her when she doesn't obey him. And," Peter gritted his teeth and swallowed hard, "if something isn't done--he's going to get her killed." He pulled his eyes open and stared at Professor Kirke. "That's why I've got to get back into Narnia. I've got to protect her."

Professor Kirke chewed madly on his pipe, eyes wide. "What's her name?"

"Victoria."

"Fine name; you've good taste," Professor Kirke mumbled distractedly. "How--how does she look?"

"Well...beautiful. She's about Susan's height and weight, last I saw her. She has blonde hair and grey eyes like me, and she has an arched nose and high cheekbones, like Morgana."

"Who?"

"My queen," Peter explained hastily.

"How--it's very odd." Professor Kirke pulled at his beard. "You say you've seen Victoria in dreams?"

"Yes," Peter sighed impatiently.

Professor Kirke's already wide eyes doubled in width. "So...have...I."

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Victoria hadn't seen so many creatures gathered in once place since her coronation. She stared down apprehensively from her porch at the Narnian troops clustered in her courtyard, waiting for her to address them.

"What is wrong, my Queen?" Oreius asked from behind her.

"I don't know what to say to them," Victoria gasped, twisting her father's gold ring in her hand. "There's so many of them...all confused and scared."

"And the right word from you, Your Majesty, might help to relieve that confusion and fright," Oreius pointed out as he raised Narnia's flag into the autumn sky. "Ask Aslan what you should say, and listen."

Victoria stared up at the flag, squinting her eyes against the harsh sunshine. Giving speeches in front of assemblies was never her strong point, since she was terrified of crowds. Yet, she knew Oreius was right: the army depended on her not only to command them, but to keep their fragile hope from breaking down.

_Aslan, what can I say?_

She sensed the troops' growing impatience at her silence; using her first nervous burst of energy, she drew herself up to full height, looked down at the troops, and sang:

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart. Mount your starry maned mare..."_

Immediately, the hum of the troops' hushed voices faded, and they listened.

_"And cross yon verdant meadows of peace. Beyond there_

_"Sleeps the Forest of Dreams, under spells of moonlight._

_"May the Lion guard thee, child. Now gallop through night."_

As Victoria's stellar voice sang the final words, Cair Paravel was strangely silent. At last, an old Centauress near the porch took up the melody.

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart, and leave this day behind._

_"Put away, child, thy toys, and ride onward to find..."_

Before long, the entire assembly of Narnian troops was singing the old lullaby.

_"The great Forest of Dreams under stars far above._

_"May Aslan watch o'er thee and bless thee with love."_

The myriad voices of the troops gently finished the song. Victoria finally spoke, in a strong voice incongruent with her normal shyness. "Friends, I cry you all for allowing this calamity to fall upon our land. Be assured that I shall do whatever I can to right my wrongs." She inhaled deeply, glancing at Oreius, and continued. "My plea is that the Great Lion shall use this coming unrest to sharpen your faith like a knife, strengthen your minds and bodies for combat, and overwhelm your spirits with peace." Victoria hardly noticed the tears making damp tracks down her cheeks. "That is all I have to say for now. So now, brothers and sisters, in the name of Aslan...I, Victoria, Queen of Narnia, Lady of Cair Paravel, and Empress of the Lone Islands, declare war against Calormen."

An enormous cheer flared up from the assembly, punctuated by chants of "Long live Victoria the Strong! Long live Victoria the Strong!"

Victoria swallowed hard as she heard herself called "The Strong" for the first time since her coronation. She still didn't believe herself worthy of the title...but now, as the troops shouted, and Oreius gave her another solemn, approving look...she felt a little closer to deserving it.

The only Narnian who did not cheer was an aged Dryad named Anwyn, one of Victoria's ladies-in-waiting. She shook her leafy head sadly, and murmured, so that none could hear her ancient, creaking voice:

_'Tis foul deeds, not fair  
Thus foist upon the Cair  
Young Queen must therefore be ware.  
Victoria, Victoria, take care..._

Unseen in the shadow of the porch, Lord Arran quietly retreated from the courtyard.

This was exactly what he wanted to happen.


	7. Campfires and Scavenger Hunts

Chapter 6--Campfires and Scavenger Hunts

A/N: If you've come this far in the story, thanks for reading! Forgot to say in the last chapters: I don't own Narnia or its characters or its stories. Heck, I don't even own a Narnia poster.

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"It was your royal father's," Oreius stated, pressing a sheathed sword into Victoria's hands. "It's high time Rhindon saw the light of day again, in the hands of its master's heir."

Victoria carefully drew Rhindon out and gasped. She hadn't expected a well-used sword, at least twenty-two years old, to still have such a brilliant shine. Early sunlight from the windows of the Great Hall bounced and glistened on the steel blade. Runic letters carved down the blade declared, "When Aslan shakes his mane, we shall have spring again."

Lord Arran, who stood near the doors, politely commented, "It's a lovely sword, Majesty. May you bear it well."

Victoria glanced blankly at him as she pushed Rhindon back into its red and golden sheath. "I shall, Lord Arran." She smiled warmly at Oreius. "Thank you for finding it."

Oreius bowed his head.

"Now, arouse my commanders," Victoria ordered. "We're ready to begin the march."

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Back in England, Peter sat at the brekfast table, glaring daggers at a slice of buttered toast that he had no appetite for.

"Professor Kirke saw her too?" Edmund's astonished voice sounded near his elbow.

"He told me that he dreamt Victoria was rushing into a battle, dressed in mail and a red cloak, sword drawn. And the Lion stood by and roared something like, 'Ware pirde, Daughter of Eve, it shall be your undoing.'"

"Well, then what did he say?"

"Nothing much," Peter mumbled. "He talked to himself for a minute about magic rings, then he only said, 'If the dream means she is in danger, and Aslan wills you to help her, he will send you to Narnia his own way, and in his own time--when you're not looking for it.' Then he sent me back to bed."

"Did you sleep well after that?" Susan asked concernedly from the other side of the table.

"Yeah," Peter lied.

An uncomfortable silence pressed down on the Pevensie children until Lucy, around a mouthful of boiled egg, commanded, "All of you look at what I found this morning." She pulled from her sweater pocket an antique pair of opera glasses and held it out over the table.

"Lucy, don't just pick things up and put them in your pocket; this isn't our house," Susan chided, taking the opera glasses and examining them.

"Where did you find those? Susan, lemme see!" Edmund reached across the table and grabbed Lucy's prize. "That makes the fourth interesting object I've found this morning."

Peter pulled the opera glasses out of Edmund's hands "You mean you're running about, keeping count of anything interesting you find?" he questioned, his anxiety giving way briefly.

"Yes. So far, not including that thing, I've got a pistol, a compass with little jewels in it, and a suit of armour."

"Oh, I'm not on the list anywhere?" Susan asked with mock disappointment. Lucy giggled.

"I think we should have a scavenger hunt," Edmund declared, ignoring Susan's joke.

"Oh, yes!" Lucy agreed loudly, upsetting her water glass.

"That's fine with me," Susan added, righting Lucy's water glass.

Peter shrugged as he laid the opera glasses on the table. "Okay. What are we scavenging for?"

"Anything interesting."

"That's too general," Susan protested.

Edmund rolled his eyes. "All right, anything interesting and shiny. When I say 'one, two, three and away', we'll split up and hunt, then we'll bring it all back here at tea time and decide which is most interesting."

"Who decides?" Lucy demanded.

"I, because I'm the most interesting person here!" Edmund replied grandly, pushing his plate away and standing.

"We'll vote," Peter chuckled, shaking his head. Edmund deflated.

"Well, let's go!" Lucy cried, hopping away from the table abruptly; her glass tipped and water crashed on the floor.

"Oh, Lucy!" Susan cried, but the child had already run. Snatching up a napkin, Susan knelt on the floor and started to mop the water. "You boys go ahead, I'll join later."

"The parlour's mine!" Edmund shouted as he disappeared down the hall.

Peter left the breakfast table, cracking a wry grin at Susan. "So much for 'one, two, three and away'."

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Victoria had never felt so exhausted, nor so grateful for a hot meal and a fire.

The march to Glasswater had taken the better part of two days. A Gryphon who flew ahead of Victoria's train guessed that from Glasswater, it would be about five more days until they reached Calormen's desert-ridden borders. And then...what? Victoria had never fought before; even depending on Oreius's advice, she felt her stomach grow hot with fear whenever she thought of Calormen.

For now, the troops camped by the quiet shore of Glasswater. Under sharp starlight, fauns, centaurs, beasts, and humans huddled around fires, hoping for relief from the cold. Near a pavilion in the center of the camp, Victoria held council around a fire with Oreius, Sallowpad the Raven, Anwyn the Dryad, and Lord Arran.

"The army grows weary, Your Majesty." Oreius gazed stoically at the flickering fire. "I fear their morale is dropping."

"I was afraid of that," Victoria sighed, setting her plate down on the chilly grass.

"Poorly organized march," Lord Arran muttered, just loud enough for Victoria to hear. "Ten thousand soldeirs, sixteen miles a day, ridiculous--"

"My lord," Oreius snapped warningly.

"Well, do you have any better ideas?" Sallowpad croaked, turning his head to focus a glittery black eye on Lord Arran.

Lord Arran flung his plate down in the grass and stalked away, growling, "Nobody appreciates my input. Nobody ever did."

Victoria hunched her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. "What is wrong with that man?" she sighed.

"It began almost thirty years ago." Anwyn, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. "Lord Arran was once advisor to the late Governor of the Lone Islands, while the White Witch still gripped Narnia in the Hundred Years' Winter."

"The late governor?" Victoria questioned, leaning forward. "The one before Governor Dalmas?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." Anwyn sipped water from her goblet. "At the time, though Narnia owned the Islands, they lived independently of the White Witch. But she grew dissatisfied with that; she feared that the Islands would eventually rebel against her. So she launched a series of attacks on them." Anwyn gazed up at the stars. "Lord Arran knew that the Governor would do nothing to resist the White Witch without urging. So he tried, in every manner, to urge the Governor to take action."

"Well, did the Governor listen?" Victoria demanded.

"No," Anwyn replied. "The White Witch assassinated him. Lord Arran found himself in prison and he stayed there until your royal father liberated him and allowed him to live in Narnia. But since then, I suppose he now feels guilty of the Governor's murder. This is most likely why Arran feels his opinion is undervalued."

After a long silence, Victoria cleared her throat. "Well, do you think I should listen to him, then?"

"Absolutely not," Anwyn replied firmly. "Even though his heart was once loyal and pure, I can feel that his past, as well as a cancerous greed, squashed the purity."

Another pause, and Victoria whispered, "Thank you, Anwyn." She gazed, with a different heart, at Lord Arran's dumpy form some yards away from the fire.

OoOoOoOoOoO

Peter found no end to "interesting and shiny" objects in the library, so he decided to look at some of the innumerable books until tea time. He just hoped the Macready wasn't thinking about giving a tour today.

After an hour of opening book after book, Peter had accumulated a morass of useless facts: In about 13,000 years, Vega, and not Polaris, will be the Earth's polestar. The first sale of canned rattlesnake meat was in Florida, USA. His name in Greek was Cephas. The list went on. When the useless facts got boring, Peter sat at a rolltop desk, elbow on the desk and chin on hand, enjoying the quiet of the library.

A moth flitted by his face, and he halfheartedly waved a hand at it, then watched intently as it spiraled past shelves and a floor length mirror.

_Why didn't I see that mirror before?_ Peter scrunched his eyebrows. _I suppose because it's covered in a foot of dust like everything else here._

Peter abandoned the rolltop desk and stood before the mirror, which was indeed so dusty that it reflected nothing. He reached out, wiped some of the dirt away, and brushed his hand off on his pants.

He froze. His mouth dropped open.

The mirror's smooth surface, where Peter had touched it, did not reflect him and the library, but a starry sky.

_What? How?_ Peter glanced at the tall, lead glass windows to his left. _It's not even noon..._ Frantic, hewhipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and cleaned the rest of the mirror. Then he stepped away from it, short of breath with amazement. He unconsciously let his grimy handkerchief fall to the carpet.

He knew what was in the mirror.

A quiet beach, bordered by grass, under pristine starlight.

Glasswater.

_Narnia._

Peter again approached the mirror, tentatively reaching towards the glass. But instead of feeling its cold smoothness under his fingertips, he felt as though he'd reached into water. And he could see his hand through the glass. Startled, he jerked his hand away, but after a moment, he impulsively plunged his whole arm into the glass. The glass wavered and shimmered, like rippling, disturbed water as his arm penetrated it and appeared through the glass, in that image of Narnia.

Now Peter bolted into the mirror, pushing his whole body through the fluid glass.

A metallic wind tore at him as he stepped through the mirror, and Peter thought icy swords were slashing into his flesh. Unnatural cold jolted his nerves and froze his lungs. Peter squeezed his eyelids shut in agony...and suddenly the pain ceased and the deathly cold resolved itself into the normal chill of a night in late autumn night.

Peter's knees gave way and he collapsed on rough grass, exhausted by the excruciating walk through the mirror. Before him, Glasswater shone beneath the harvest moon. A number of yards away, he thought he saw the glow of campfires.

_I'm back. I'm here. I'm in Narnia, _was the last thought that his mind offered before succumbing to unconsciousness.


	8. Cephas

Chapter 7--Cephas

A/N: Yeehaw, I'm up to chapter 7! Thanks everyone for reading and reviewing!

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"Your Majesty!"

Victoria's attention jumped from the campfire to the speaker. She stood up and smoothed her skirts as a centaur trotted into the campground, carrying something in both arms. "Commander Maelchon, is something amiss?"

"Nay, Majesty," Maelchon bowed as Oreius saluted him. "My men were scouting ahead of the camp and found this. We think he may be hurt." As he spoke, Maelchon held out his huge arms, and Victoria gasped as she realised it was an unconscious young man.

"Bring him into my pavilion and lay him down," Victoria ordered. She deftly threw the remains of her dinner into the fire and muttered to Sallowpad, Oreius, and Anwyn, "Council adjourned." She swept into her pavilion, followed by Oreius.

Victoria, once in her pavilion, blinked until her eyes adjusted to its semi-darkness. As Maelchon draped the young man's limp form on a cluster of pillows, Victoria knelt over him. "Any idea who he is?" she whispered.

"Nay, Majesty," Maelchon replied, stepping back. "Never seen him before."

Victoria didn't notice as Oreius abruptly covered his mouth with his hand and turned away.

"He's extremely cold," Maelchon continued.

Victoria touched the young man's bare forearm, and pulled her hand away. "Aslan's mane, it's as though he were frostbitten! But the air isn't cold enough to inflict frostbite," she mused. "Find Tumnus the Faun, Maelchon, quick as you can; he may have some tea that can warm this poor man up."

"Aye, Majesty," Maelchon bowed and galloped through the tent's flaps.

"Queen Victoria," Oreius finally began. Victoria lifted her face up and glanced at him; his face was impassive as usual, but she thought she'd sensed a tremor in his voice. "I--I believe--do you know who this is?"

Victoria had no time to guess, for, with a deep, terrified gasp, the young man bolted awake. "Touch her again, demon, and I'll rip your head from your shoulders!" he barked, sitting up.

Pushing him gently back into the pillows, Victoria shushed him. "It's all right, sir; you're safe now," she murmured soothingly. "If you're tired, you may spend the night here."

His frantic, erratic breath steadied a little, and his eyes darted about the tent. "Where am I? Who are you?" he asked, in a quieter voice.

"I am Queen Victoria of Narnia, and you're at our camp at Glasswater, in my pavilion," Victoria replied. "And you?"

The young man's bleary grey eyes met hers, and slowly widened. He sat up again. "Victoria...oh God, Aslan really did bring me here..."

"What are you talking about?" Victoria asked.

"Victoria, it's me, Peter--your father."

As though she'd been insulted, Victoria stepped away from the young man. "Wh-hat?" she asked flatly.

Oreius bended his knee to the young man, to Victoria's stark astonishment. "My King, thank you for returning to Narnia in our--"

That was as far as he got, for indignant rage surged through Victoria, and she lunged forward and slapped the young man hard across the mouth. "Do not mock me, sir," she snapped, quaking with anger. "General Oreius, don't encourage a liar in his falsehoods. Sir, tell me your true name or I'll send you out of the camp."

"Your Majesty," Oreius began to protest.

The young man, pressing a hand to his hurt face, blurted out, "Cephas. My name is Cephas, please it your Majesty, and I cry you mercy for my falsehood."

Oreius glared, amazed, at the young man.

"Do not repeat it and I shall be lenient," Victoria replied tersely. "From where have you come, Cephas? Now."

"I live in Beruna, your Majesty. My family was making a trip to Archenland, and I lost them along the way."

Soft hoofbeats on the ground distracted the three, and they glanced up as Tumnus entered the pavilion, a steaming flagon in his hands. "You sent for me, Your Majesty; is every--" Tumnus broke off, and his blue eyes about tripled in width when he saw the young man. He almost dropped the silver flagon. "By the Lion--how--where--" he stammered.

"I am Cephas, sir," Cephas introduced himself firmly. "You?"

Tumnus opened his mouth to speak, but when he saw Oreius nodding briskly at him, he only muttered, "It's a pleasure, sir. My name is Tumnus."

"Now that you've made your introduction, see that Cephas is taken care of," Victoria commanded, and she stalked out of the pavilion.

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When he was sure Victoria was out of earshot, Oreius blurted out, "By Aslan! High King, why did you not tell her your true name!"

"It would've gotten me nowhere," Peter sighed, sinking back into the pillows. "Anyway, it was partly true. Cephas is my name in Greek."

"Greek? Never heard of it," Oreius waved that aside. "How did you get back here? And how is it that when I saw you last, you were twenty-seven, and now you're not nearly that?"

"I don't know," Peter murmured wearily. "I walked through a mirror--it was terrible."

Tumnus touched Peter's forehead. "Is that why you're so cold?"

"I think so," Peter shrugged. He turned away from his friends and gazed at the ceiling, in a morass of pain, disappointment, and confusion. _Aslan, I thought you brought me here to help Victoria, _he prayed silently, _so why won't she recognise me?_

"Drink this," Tumnus ordered, pushing a steaming goblet into Peter's icy hands. "It'll help with the cold."

Peter obeyed, and five minutes later, warmth and sleep claimed him.

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Victoria stormed towards the shore, biting her lip and clenching her hands in painful fists. Autumnal wind stung her tear-streaked face, and she shivered. At last, when she reached the shore, she flung herself crosslegged into the sand and sobbed. Who in Aslan's name did that insolent man think he was? Taking advantage of her like that...Victoria shuddered and wept angrily, not caring if anyone heard.

After a half-hour, her tears had subsided. Victoria wiped her face with the edge of her sleeve, and as she did, the gold ring hanging from her neck touched her skin. She jumped; it felt like a ring of ice. Carefully she reached into her bodice and drew it out into the starlight. Everybody in Narnia knew she wore it on her mother's chain, and why she wore it. Never had she imagined that someone would tease her because she wanted to find her father.

Again rage swirled in her spirit; she unfastened the chain and threw the ring, as hard as she could, into the sand. "He's probably dead anyway," she spat before she whirled on her heel and began to march away.

Victoria's pace slowed, stopped. She slowly turned around and stared at the ring, glittering and lonely on the beach. At last, sighing heavily, she went back, knelt, and picked it up. Carefully turning it around in her fingers, she read the familiar inscription inside: _"Love Has Taken Magnificence and Transformed It Into Splendour. For Peter, From Morgana. 1006."_

_If he's dead, I won't believe it until I see it, _the girl finally resolved. _Until then, I gave Mother my word and I intend to keep it, even if others make fun of me._

Victoria looped Peter's wedding ring around Morgana's gold chain, and returned them to their place.


	9. Ambush

Chapter 8--Ambush

A/N: Again, thanks so much to all for the reviews and encouragement. And now all the world shall see why I rated this fic "T".

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Lord Arran skulked through the maze of tents, waiting to hear a low whistle. When the whistle echoed quietly in the night, he wheeled about and saw who he was searching for: The cloak-shrouded figure he had spoken to at the gates of Cair Paravel.

"What news, Arran?" the figure hissed.

Lord Arran approached the figure, glanced about sharply, and mumbled, "The good news is, the army's morale is dropping. The bad news is..." After once more assuring himself that he wasn't being watched, Lord Arran dropped his voice to a whisper. "...the High King Peter is back."

The figure froze. "What? How?"

"I don't know. Black magic, maybe. And what's worse is that he's not nearing his fifties like he should be by now--at least he doesn't look like it. He's young again."

"The Tisroc, may he live forever, will be thrilled," the figure replied sarcastically.

"Fortunately for us," Lord Arran continued, "Queen Victoria does not recognise him. But the general does."

"What do you desire I do about it?"

Lord Arran pressed some coins into the figures hand, and answered, through gritted teeth, "Kill him. Immediately."

"Where shall I find him?"

"He is asleep in the Queen's pavilion. Try not to wake the Queen. Kill him undetected and I'll double your pay."

"To hear is to obey, my lord. I'll send one of my men as soon as I can. What of General Oreius?" the figure demanded, pocketing the coins.

"Leave him," Lord Arran commanded softly. "He's mine. When the time comes, he'll pay for his insolence to me--with his severed head."

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Peter rolled over on his side, half awake, as he squeezed his eyebrows together confusedly. What had awakened him?

The thin amount of light coming through the red walls of the pavilion told him that dawn would arrive in about an hour. To his right, Victoria slept in the security of her hammock. Sadness momentarily twisted through his stomach like a knife, and he wondered, _What will it take to show her who I am?_

A twig snapped outside the pavilion, making Peter jump. He turned his head towards the sound, and stiffened as a shadow drifted across the tent. _Probably just a soldier getting some water_, he decided, and relaxing slightly, let his head fall back into a pillow.

But no sooner had he done that, than a wild, terrifying voice growled into his mind, _No, it's not. Take up your sword, Son of Adam. Prepare to fight._

_What? No. I am imagining things. I'm overexhausted, so I'm going back to sleep, _Peter firmly countered the voice. As he closed his eyes, the growl changed into a roar.

_Son of Adam! Awake! Take up your sword!_

Peter felt his stomach drop with terror, but he hardly knew why.

_Peter, TAKE UP YOUR SWORD! NOW!_

_Aslan, I don't have a sword! _Peter cried silently, desperately.

_Look to your left!_

Peter obeyed. Relief and amazement surged through him, for there lay Rhindon, his old sword, inside its gold-embellished sheath. He tumbled off the pillows and grabbed the sword.

Immediately the tent flaps swished open and a figure rushed in, sword drawn, and lunged at Peter.

With a startled gasp, Peter jerked Rhindon out of its sheath and blocked the attack. Even so, the figure had hit so powerfully that he toppled on his back.

"What in the name of--" Victoria began, sitting up. She covered her mouth to stifle a scream as Peter's attacker swung the blade at his neck.

Peter threw his head back and cried out in terror as the blade missed his throat by an inch. "_Victoria, get out of here_!" he shouted, pushing himself off the ground.

Victoria, instead of leaving the pavilion, bounded out of her hammock and snatched up a long wooden bow near the back of the tent.

"What are you doing?" Peter yelled, striking at his attacker's legs and missing.

Without reply, Victoria stumbled behind the man and crushed his head with the wood bow. He grunted in pain and lashed out again, slicing into Peter's shoulder.

Peter screamed, but then realised that the blade had only nicked him and he could still move his arm. So, he took a deep breath, and threw a determined attack at the man's stomach on the exhale, shouting defiantly.

The man dropped his sword and roared as his blood soaked his clothes, the ground, and Peter. Then he swayed, and crashed down on his face. Before Peter could finish him off, Victoria threw herself on her knees, whipped her bodice knife out and plunged it between the attacker's shoulder blades. The man gurgled as his blood bubbled up around Victoria's fist, and abruptly went motionless.

Sick and dizzy as he was from the combat, Peter demanded, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Victoria rose, white and trembling, and cleaned her knife with a handkerchief. "Thank you, Cephas."

"_What happened!"_ Oreius galloped into the pavilion, swords glinting in the dim light. "Your Majesties--Majesty, are you all right?"

Victoria returned her knife to her bodice. "I think so. This man attacked us."

Oreius brusquely turned the corpse on its back. "It's a Calormene." Simple words, but they induced extreme horror in Victoria.

"Which means..." she gasped. "They know where we are."

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"ALL TROOPS MAKE READY TO FLY!" Oreius and several heralds roared as they dashed through the camp; some punctuated the commands with blasts from horns.

As he rushed to pull up his tent pegs, Lord Arran nodded to himself in satisfaction, believing Queen Victoria must have discovered the High King dead.

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Victoria buzzed about the pavilion, cramming her things into a pack, wading through a flurry of ladies-in-waiting. "Cephas, you must get away from here quick as you can," she commanded the young man who waited at the exit. "May Aslan lead you to Archenland and your family in safety."

Cephas cleared his throat. "Actually, please it your Majesty, I have a mind to accompany your band to the border."

"What? Why?" Victoria demanded unceremoniously as she struggled to pull her leather sandals on.

"Safety in numbers?" Cephas shrugged.

_Insolent little--_Victoria began to fume, but a low growl echoed in her mind, cutting her thoughts short. _Daughter of Eve, grant Cephas his wish._

Victoria sighed; she knew that even if he didn't speak aloud, Aslan gave orders for a reason. She faced Cephas. "Done. You may accompany us."


	10. Pierced

Chapter 9--Pierced

A/N: Hi everyone! Well, after battles with writer's block, my PC, and a few hedgehogs, here's chapter 9! I know, I know, it was quite long in the making. We all know it belongs to good old C.S. Lewis, right? Right?

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Aa she marched, Peter tried to amuse himself with the shape of his visible breath in the cold, early air. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about his shoulders, again feeling grateful to be in Narnian clothes. His tunic was a bit massive, being sewn for a larger man, but that was all right. The wound in his shoulder stung in the chill. Tumnus had given him a canteen of wine to dull the pain, but he had yet to drink any.

Yards ahead of him, Victoria trudged through the frost-crusted grass, shoulders slumped. Peter bit his lip; that was no was for a Queen of Narnia to carry herself. Was she all right? Then he recognised the man walking alongside her, running his mouth at an incredible rate--Lord Arran. _That son of forty hags is still alive?_ As soon as the thought was processed, Peter felt ashamed; nasty as Lord Arran might have been during his own reign, he was, nonetheless, a subject of Narnia, and deserved respect. Still...

Abruptly, Victoria halted, shoulders back, head higher. Peter heard her snap, "General Oreius! Why are we flying? We are Narnians and soldiers, not weak-livered schoolchildren." She turned on Lord Arran. "Why do you think we have declared war on Calormen, Lord Arran? So we can run like whipped dogs before the battle even begins!"

"I can run pretty well," Peter heard a Dog behind him mutter, before another Dog silenced him.

"Your Majesty, I'm only looking out for--"

"My best interests," Victoria finished, exasperated. "My lord, the important thing here is not my best interests, but Narnia's!"

A murmured agreement rippled through the now-attentive mass of soldiers. A Dwarf shouted, rather indecorously, "That's telling him, Queenie! Atta girl!" Several Dwarfs punctuated this with, "Shut yer yap, Lord Arran! Boo!" Peter smiled; he could see the Dwarfs hadn't changed since he'd been gone.

"What's your pleasure, Majesty? Run back to meet the Calormenes or wait for them?" Oreius asked, pawing at the icy dirt with one hoof.

"I've a mind to hide the cavalry behind the cliffs so they can take the Calormen infantry by surprise," Victoria replied, hands on hips.

"Is that wise, Majesty?" Oreius countered. "The Gryphons who flew ahead said that the Calormen first sent out six cavalries, five hundred horse each. They'd plow our infantry over."

"WAIT A MINUTE!" Lord Arran screamed, meaty face purple. "This is all madness!"

Victoria smiled; a placid, challenging smile that Peter knew well, for it mirrored his own. "Well, if you have a better plan, then do say so, my lord."

At the laughter of some Centaurs and the Dwarfs' derisive "Boo!", Lord Arran sputtered, flailing arms. At last his temper flared out of control. He shoved Victoria hard, and spat, "Impudent girl!"

As Tumnus broke Victoria's fall, Peter impulsively strode to Lord Arran, jerking open his canteen of wine. "You, my lord," he barked, "will give the respect due to a Queen and a Lady!"

And with that, he turned his canteen upside down and soaked Lord Arran in a sweet, reddish downpour. The already incensed nobleman shrieked as the wine came down, and the laughter of the soldiers crescendoed as he tripped and flopped to the ground. Peter stepped calmly away from him.

"Boy, do you _know_ who I am!" Lord Arran screeched, grasping upwards for Peter's canteen.

Peter held the canteen out of Lord Arran's reach. "Yes, I do: A silly man who thinks nobody appreciates him."

Applause erupted from the soldiers, and the highly entertained Dwarfs crowed, "That's right! About time the man fell on his precious phiz! Go home, you green little girl!"

Victoria could only stare.

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As he heard the rippling laughter about him, one thought dominated Lord Arran's mind:_ It's time this girl learned who she is._

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Susan gently placed a tiny, rusty fork on the dining table.

Edmund and Lucy stared blankly at it.

"That's all I could find," Susan grunted. "Anyway, I thought it was pretty interesting."

"It isn't even shiny," Edmund snorted.

"What on earth is it for? It's too small for eating," Lucy mused, examining the fork.

"Well, here's what I found: Edmund said grandly, producing a wooden box and opening it to reveal a stunning collection of rings and necklaces.

"The Macready would kill you if she found you with that," Susan gaped.

"I found a harp," Lucy muttered, "but it was too big to carry."

"You two just don't look hard enough," Edmund shrugged. "Well, if Peter would drag his sorry self out of the library already, we couldld vote on these. Lucy, you'll have to show us where you found the harp."

Lucy put Susan's fork down. "I wonder what he's found."

"With as long as he's taking, he's probably trying to haul a whole bookshelf in here," Edmund grumbled.

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Victoria pressed her index finger against a map spread out on a table. "I'll lead the first five divisions. The cavalry will ride alongside them, and we'll keep the archers and the rest of the infantry in reserve."

"Yes, Majesty," Oreius replied calmly as ever.

Rolling the map into a wooden tube, Victoria sighed and scanned the hills ahead; she knew that Calormenes were coming closer every second. Advisors and allies surrounded her, yet, she felt deserted. The courage she'd seized when she rebelled against the retreat was gone by now, and she was back to her small, incapable self.

"You are troubled, Majesty," said Oreius.

Victoria sat down in the cold grass. "This is my first battle, Oreius. What if I can't do this?"

Oreius surpised Victoria by kneeling in the grass next to her. "Even if you cannot, the Lion can."

"I know. But even in faith, I can't help feeling some fear."

Again both were silent. Finally Oreius said, "Your Majesty, may I offer you a proverb that my father gave me before his death? Fear is not weakness when you do not give into it." He paused, and stood up, his silver armour clinking gently. "Think upon that."

As Oreius lumbered away, Victoria stood back up and leaned heavily against the table. Letting her right hand fall to her side, she felt beneath her robe for her father's ring with her left hand. She twirled the icy circle between her finger and thumb.

_Fear is not weakness when you do not give into it._

_You are not weak, Daughter of Eve._

Victoria clenched her eyelids together to stop tears.

_But I am afraid, Aslan. _

_I will be with you always, even to the end of time, _Aslan whispered back.

_And so will I, _a new voice added.

Tears traced down Victoria's cheeks as she recognised the voice. _Father._

The ring began to warm in her hand.

And pain streaked through the other one.

Victoria screamed as an arrowhead cut through the skin and tendons of her right hand. She didn't stop to wonder who had shot her or what the consequences were. Sobbing and hugging her hand to her chest, she fell backwards, sitting hard on the ground.

"_Majesty!_" she heard Oreius thunder as he galloped to her. Tumnus and Cephas trailed behind her.

Victoria held her injured hand out to them, unable to look at the arrow dangling and the blood spurting from it.

"Find the Centaur Galeblaze, quickly!" Oreius commanded a page who was standing nearby.

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Oreius blinked, stepped back. "Wh-hat?"

That was the first time Victoria had even seen Oreius at a loss for words.

"It was a Narnian arrow, General," Galeblaze, the medic, repeated. "I've removed it and cleaned and numbed the Queen's wound. I'm afraid her hand is out of comission for a while." Shoulders slumped, he left Victoria's pavilion.

Victoria stared down at her bandaged right hand. "It _can't_ be out of comission. I need it," she stated simply.

Oreius squeezed his hands into fists. "I only want to know one thing--who did this?"

"I'm sure it was an accident," Victoria spoke gently, sensing her general's anger.

"And certainly a convenient accident, my queen," Oreius mumbled.

"Oreius, I cannot believe that anyone here--"

"What if Lord Arran was behind it?" Cephas blurted out as he stumbled into the pavilion.

Victoria glared at the intruder. "Sir, do not speak without permission." She looked again at Oreius. "No matter. I'll fight anyway."


	11. Tóg Do Chroisa

Chapter 10--Tóg Do Chroisa

A/N: Yo peeps! The name of this chapter is in Gaelic; it means "take heart". Special thanks to Almyra for the encouraging assessment of Victoria.

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"What part of 'at tea time' does he not understand?" Edmund growled, sulking in a chair at the breakfast table.

Lucy, picking at the hem of her sweater, said, "Perhaps he's locked up in a closet somewhere..."

"What kind of idiot is going to lock himself in a closet?"

Susan glanced up scornfully from her book. "Don't even get me started on the time you were stuck--"

"It was the WC!" Edmund protested. "And how was I to know it only locked on the inside?"

"WC or not, it was still--"

"Anyway, I was three years old!"

"Don't let's argue," Lucy cut in. "We really should try and find him. He could have hurt himself."

"Sure. On what?" Edmund scoffed.

Lucy shrugged as she slid out of her chair. "He hasn't been acting like himself lately. He's so...distant. If he's _accidentally_ hurt himself--"

"Right." Susan nodded and snapped her book shut. "I'll help you look. We'll check the library first."

The girls walked out of the breakfast nook. Edmund skulked behind them, mouthing, "And if he's _still_ scavenging, I'll throttle him."

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Peter crouched before a campfire, not listening to the babbling Satyrs and Moles that surrounded it. He stretched his hands out towards the fire, but they didn't warm. Frustrated, he thrust his hands directly into the flames and pulled them away quickly. He felt no heat from the fire, no pain. Just cold. His white skin showed no sign that fire had even touched it.

He chomped down on his lip, stifling an angry sob.

_I can't last much longer like this._

"Cephas?"

Peter looked up from his hands. Victoria stood, a bit hesitantly, outside of the circe of soldiers about the fire. She glanced at the soldiers and said, "I wish to speak to you alone for a moment."

Taking the signal, the Satyrs and Moles migrated away from the fire. Victoria surprised Peter by sitting down, on the other side of the fire.

"I'm afraid I've been a bit harsh, sir, and that I didn't thank you properly this morning."

Peter shook his head. "Your Majesty--"

Victoria cut him off. "Seriously, I am impressed by you, sir. By your frankness, your valour. I am also indebted to you." She gazed down at her bandaged hand. "Perhaps I can ask King Lune to keep you at Anvard and help you find your parents..."

"No, please." Peter shook his head, feeling that, even if he upset her, he would have to try and tell her the truth again.

"Well then, name your pleasure. Whatever you want, then by the Lion, you'll get it."

Peter squeezed his eyes shut. He gave himself a long pause to calm himself, but when he tried to speak, the words stuck in his throat like peanut butter. _Why can't you see me for who I am? _he wondered silently. _Why can't you find me?_

"Did you speak, sir?" Victoria asked sharply.

Peter opened his eyes. "No, your Majesty."

"I thought you did." Victoria stared into the fire, and then burst out, "It's the oddest thing, sir. I hear my father's voice in my head, but not as if in a memory--as though he were actually here, speaking to me. It hurts." She shook her gold-brown head and glanced quzzically at Peter. "Why am I telling you this?"

"You don't offend me, your Majesty," Peter assured her.

"It's just--" Victoria sighed, and when she spoke again, Peter sensed a teary edge in her voice. "It's just--this time, he said, 'Why can't you find me?' And I'm trying as hard as I can to find him! I really am! I promised Mother I would!" Now her tears dropped rapidly across her face. "But under the circumstances--what with the war--I used to go to Lantern Waste and sit in a tree and think about him, and I'd feel close to him, but--"

"But still a world away." Peter finished.

"Yes," Victoria sobbed. "I--I want to be everything he was. I want to keep his legacy alive. But I'm always so scared. Even if I can stand up to Lord Arran once in a while, I still walk away feeling shy and small. I'm afraid that if Father could see me, he'd be disappointed."

"Not at all," Peter said quietly, but firmly. "Your Majesty, I, too, miss my father. Sometimes I can imagine him, coming home and being proud of me. But at night, I always see him in the war, lying dead in a battlefield." He stopped for a moment, to regain control of his voice. "But do you know--though he is miles away from me, he's with me. I don't know how; maybe in the same way that the Lion stays with us at great distances. And even if I do not have him, or Aslan, I have their love." He smiled. "I know, cliche, but--it's really the only thing that keeps me from completely falling apart."

Victoria looked as though Peter had just spun gold and given it to her. Yet she only whispered, "Thank you."

Peter nodded and again closed his eyes.

_Don't you know you have my love?_

"I can feel him," Victoria said abruptly. "He said, 'Don't you know you have my love'. I can feel it. His love, I mean. And Aslan's."

Peter stared at Victoria.

Was she reading his mind?

His fingers lost some of their icy chill.

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Oreius picked at the leather hilt of his sheathed sword, gazing at Victoria's camp. He hoped that whoever had shot Victoria that afternoon had made peace with Aslan.

"Ah, General Oreius!" a jovial voice called behind him.

Oreius whipped about and saw Lord Arran coming behind him. "What do you want, my lord?" he asked, turning away. He tried to keep his voice polite, but stamped on the dirt with a front hoof.

"Want, General?" Lord Arran laughed, fiddling with his belt. "Why, nothing."

He was silent for a long moment. Then Oreius heard metal scraping. He looked over his shoulder--and froze. Lord Arran had drawn his sword, and now pointed it at Oreius's neck.

"Only respect--and revenge," Lord Arran hissed.

Oreius glared at Lord Arran, but he heard a noise approaching from the south that made his heart sink to his hooves.

Calormene war drums.

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Victoria had fallen asleep by the waning campfire. Peter sat stiffly across from her, still too frozen to shiver. He stared at her unconscious face and remembered giving it a good-night kiss after singing her to sleep when she was a child.

How did that lullaby she'd always loved go? _Forest of Dreams_? The melody swirled into his memory, and he started to hum it.

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart. Mount your starry maned mare..."_

_"And cross yon verdant meadows of peace. Beyond there_

_"Sleeps the Forest of Dreams, under spells of moonlight._

_"May the Lion guard thee, child. Now gallop through night."_

In a hushed voice, Peter sang the second verse.

_"Close thine eyes, dearest heart, and leave this day behind._

_"Put away, child, thy toys, and ride onward to find..._

_"The great Forest of Dreams under stars far above._

_"May Aslan watch o'er thee and bless thee with love."_

"Your Majesty! YOUR MAJESTY!" Tumnus's frantic cry broke Peter's reverie. The Faun stumbled up, breathless and terrified. "High King! Where is Queen Victoria?"

Peter mutely pointed at Victoria, who was still asleep.

Tumnus shook Victoria's shoulder. "Wake up, my Queen! Quick!"

Groaning tiredly, Victoria opened her eyes. "Mr. Tumnus? What is it?"

"General Oreius is wounded, your Majesty," Tumnus blurted, blue eyes darting towards the south, "and Calormen comes. Six cavalries, five hundred horse each."

Victoria stared at Tumnus, trembling. Peter jumped up and spat, "How like them! Sending a surprise attack far from the battlefield!"

"We await your orders, your Majesty," Tumnus stammered.

"What orders? There are no orders!" Victoria cried, standing up in a panic. "Everyone for himself!"

Tumnus stepped back, aghast and silenced. At last, "You--we--you won't fight?"

"I won't! I can't!" Victoria started to sob, and would have run away, but Peter lunged forward and grabbed her shoulder.

"You can't just run--"

"Yes, I can! I didn't provoke this attack, they have no right to do this! I don't have to fight them! Let me go!" Victoria tried to jerk away. "I can't do this!"

Peter grabbed both of her shoulders and faced her, with all the authority he could muster. "Victoria! You _have _to do this! Stop running scared. Remember who you are!" he shouted. "You're Queen of Narnia. And remember who Aslan is; remember all he's done for you! Did he not save you from that assassin this morning? Did he not save you from death by letting an arrow only hit your hand? Will he not so much more save you now? Take heart! He will always be with you, even to the end of time."

_I haven't talked like that in years._

Victoria's trembling and tears slowed.

"You can do this," Peter continued, still hanging on to her shoulders. "I know it."

Victoria closed her puffy eyes. When she opened them, they were the same brave, grey eyes of her father.

"All right," she said simply. "Tumnus, fetch my bow and quiver from my pavilion. Then alert my commanders as quick as you can."

"Aye, Majesty." Tumnus bolted for Victoria's pavilion.

Victoria turned to Peter. "Fly."

"No."

"At once."

Peter shook his head. "I'll fight with you."

"But your family in Archenland--"

"Your Majesty," Peter sighed, "I have no family in Archenland. I'm not who you think."

Victoria glared at him. "Well then, Aslan's mane, who are you?"

"I can't tell you," Peter insisted desperately.

Victoria raised her hands and began to argue, but then she seemed to deflate. She dropped her hands. "All right. What do you need?"

"Just a sword."


End file.
